


No More Running

by silbecoo



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 20:26:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7771966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silbecoo/pseuds/silbecoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was <a href="http://thekastlediaries.tumblr.com/post/148933852871/julystorms-fuckyeahdiomedes-brella">this adorable post</a> on tumblr, containing a list of lovely ship tropes, and this is the one that someone asked me to write: <b>"channeling the inner romcom and having an epiphany about how much they care about each other and RACING TO CONFESS THEIR LOVE"</b> so i did :P</p>
            </blockquote>





	No More Running

The whiskey burned going down his throat, shot glass clinking against his front teeth, his reflexes just a little off. He wasn’t a drinker really, never had been, not even before, when his life was normal and carousing with friends was an option. No, Frank Castle usually preferred keeping his mind completely unclouded. But tonight…. Well how else do you celebrate the nuptials of a dear friend?

The bar wasn’t crowded, a blessing really. It’d been a few years since his face was in the news, and he had a week’s growth of stubble to hide his features, but it really wouldn’t do for someone to recognize him, even if he was in the mood to crack a few skulls. It’s why he couldn’t have gone to the wedding, couldn’t have sat in a crowd of do-gooders to watch her swear fealty to… He sighed. To some soft blond reporter who’d never seen a drop of blood other than his own, who didn’t know how to shoot a gun, who couldn't protect his own ass let alone someone else’s

He poured himself another shot. After the first four, he had laid couple hundreds down on the counter telling the bartender to, “leave the damn bottle.” She had shrugged and walked away. Frank wasn’t the kind of patron she was inclined to argue with. If he passed out, she’d just have her brother dump him in the alley.

Frank eyed the label on the bottle, like some kind of cipher he needed to puzzle out, like the answers were right in front of him, if only he could crack the fucking code. Screw it. He poured himself another shot. This time the liquid didn't burn going down. Good, that meant he was getting numb.

Sluggishly, he tapped out a rhythm on the damp bar, humming softly to himself. A song long forgotten, the image of her laughing face crowding in on his thoughts a little too quickly. It was bullshit. He reached for the bottle again, but a hand clapped down on his forearm, stopping him.

“Frank…”

He looked up, prepared to knock someone the fuck out, brain barely registering the hard edge of a familiar feminine voice. 

She took the stool beside him, prying the bottle from his fingers and snatching his shot glass for herself. She poured herself a shot, pushing a wave of thick black hair out of her face. “Gotta save some for the city’s other alcoholics.”

She knocked back the shot like it was water, pouring her a second before turning to look at him. “Jesus, you look like hell, Castle, and that’s saying something.”

“Right back at ya, Jones.”

“Yeah, well… that’s nothing new.”

They sat for a moment in silence. Jessica twisted the bottle around, looking at the level of the amber liquid. “You need to get out more, Frank. Your tolerance really leaves something to be desired. If I hadn’t shown up, you would’ve been puking in the alley before ten.”

He shrugged, fighting the urge to ask about the wedding. He lost. “How was it?”

She shrugged. “You know, the usual bullshit. Beautiful bridesmaids in ugly as hell dresses, soft light filtering through stained glass windows that cost more than it would take to feed Hell’s Kitchen’s entire homeless population for a day.”

He grunted, expecting nothing different.

Jessica took a swig directly from the bottle, a wry smile splitting across her face. “And sweet ole Eric, just all shiny faced, like a ken doll with his wavy gold hair parted on the side… completely blindsided by the fact that Karen didn’t even bother to fucking show up.” She snorted. “I hate weddings, but _that_ was entertaining.”

His head snapped up, eyes furiously trying to blink away the effects of alcohol. Jessica just shrugged, and continued. “Nope, and Mr. Potato Head was majorly pissed, mostly embarrassed I’d say.”

“Where is she?”

* * *

Frank had seen them together once, on his way to Karen’s apartment. He’d watched her self-consciously tucking one strand of hair behind her ear, laughing at something the man had said. Frank was too far away, but he’d known there was a soft blush suffusing her pale skin, her eyes sparkling with mirth. The man’s hand didn’t stray from the small of her back, resting respectfully a few inches above the gentle curve of her ass. It was a nice gesture. Frank had left, reluctantly, when his voyeurism began to feel a little creepy.

He told himself it was a good thing. She needed someone to treat her right, to take her out to art shows or dinner and a movie, to drag her away from the macabre scenes she seemed to be drawn to, to pry her hands from the humming laptop in her lap and take her out to just have fun. She needed to get her head out of the dark depths once in awhile.

And he had to stop bringing the darkness to her, stop showing up on her doorstep with busted ribs and a bleeding face expecting a soft place to land. It was a habit he didn’t seem able to break.

She never mentioned the blond man who’d walked her home, dabbing Frank’s wounds with a stinging antiseptic, asking him twenty thousand questions about the latest story she was running after, frowning over his tight-lipped answers. Involuntarily he began to mark off the days that passed, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Frank told himself Karen kept the blonde man to herself because the punisher was only a source to her, someone to keep on the line for good leads. 

He didn’t like to think about how her fingertips lingered just a touch longer than necessary when applying his bandages, or the warmth in her voice when they spoke about things from their pasts, things that had nothing to do with death and destruction. He didn’t like the idea that she kept the blond man a secret because she was waiting for him to say something, to _do_ something.

Then one day he’d been at the wrong place at the right time. He’d seen the blonde man in the bodega down the street from Karen’s apartment, the man whose name he’d learned all on his own, Eric. The man whose background check came up clean, the man that had left Karen’s apartment at six a.m. one morning while Frank was on his way up, with coffee. Frank had turned around and left, tossing the sugary concoction he'd ordered for her in the nearest bin and moving on with his day, something stuck in his craw. Taking out this unfamiliar feeling of dissatisfaction on the scumbags of the day, he’d put the guns away and pounded his way through them with his fists, chest heaving. It didn’t help.

Seeing Eric this particular evening had been a coincidence, Frank dropping into the tiny store because he needed to get Max some food. This bodega didn’t have pesky surveillance cameras, and that was a plus for a wanted man.

Eric caught his eye. He was taller than Frank by a couple inches, smooth round face reminiscent of Karen’s friend Foggy. Frank wondered if maybe she had a type, a little twinge of something unnameable zipping through him unexpectedly. He pushed it away, eyeing the taller man from behind a rack of magazines.

As usual, Frank’s timing when it came to personal matters was awful. A skinny kid chose that moment to bust through the bodega’s front door, waving a little handgun back and forth, his hoodie pulled up over his head. Frank sighed. This little punk was shaking with adrenaline, barely able to hang on to the pistol, his palms sweaty with nerves.

The kid darted up to the counter, shoving the barrel of his weapon in the clerk’s face, demanding all the cash from the register and all the cigarettes that would fit in his little canvas bag. Frank ducked down, moving along the aisle. He rounded it, the toe of his boot coming up against something soft in the floor. Eric.

The man was huddled against the cold tile, hands over his head, shaking like a leaf. Frank was disgusted. Even Foggy had the tenacity to step up to the plate and help others when he had the chance. This sniveling little shit wouldn’t do at all, not for a woman who courted danger at every opportunity. He made a mental note to have a talk with Karen before focusing on the matter at hand. Silently he came up behind the kid, grabbing the arm with the gun and twisting it painfully behind the kid’s back. In a matter of seconds the gun was on the floor in pieces, and Frank’s sleeper hold had put the kid completely out. He grabbed two cans of dog food and left his money on the counter without a word, leaving everyone in the bodega to stare after him in confusion, including Eric. He went straight to her place.

* * *

Karen shook her head at him, uncomfortable laughter spilling out.. “Are you kidding me? You’ve got a _lot_ of nerve, Frank. A lot of fucking nerve.”

“Ma’am, listen. He’s not the right man--” He implored her, using his softest tone, but she cut him off anyway.

“You try to tell me how to live my life?” Looking at him, she tried to hide the tremble of disappointment in her voice. “Well, the least you could do is use my name. Who _is_ the right man, Frank?” She swallowed. The air was thick between them, pregnant with every unspoken think that had ever passed between them.. “You?”

Recoiling, his nostrils flared, anger and something she didn’t quite recognize flashing in his eyes. It made her shiver.

“You need someone who can _protect_ you,” he said gruffly.

“Stop that. You don’t get to do that. I can protect myself.” Karen stared at him, eyes sparking with annoyance.

This was the last conversation she expected to have when she opened her door to him. She’d given him a once over, expecting an injury of some kind, but he’d just stared at her so seriously, jaw set, and told her they needed to talk. _We need to talk._ Jesus, it was such a cliche coupley thing to say. She’d felt manic little butterflies flutter up from her stomach and into her throat. She’d thought… Oh, hell, she’d thought he’d finally come to tell her he wanted something more, something more than the soft looks they shared, the gentle touches that stopped just short of needing a definition. She’d flushed with embarrassment when he’d mentioned Eric, but had quickly cloaked it in anger.

She was very close to shoving Frank out of her apartment, telling him to take a run around the block and come back when he’d found his sanity. But his eyes, the intensity in them. They spoke of things he couldn’t voice, and it tore at her. She softened toward him. “He’s a good man, Frank. This is a ridiculous conversation. It’s _good_ that he didn’t go running toward the man with the gun.”

“It was a _kid_. Eric’s a coward--”

She stiffened. “Stop it, stop. I told you a long time ago…” She trailed off, the distant memory of Frank backing out of her embrace hitting her suddenly. She’d given him a chance, to have something more, but he’d turned to stone, pushed her away, and she’d let him. Far be it for her to force him into something he wasn't ready for. And she’d waited, God had she waited, falling in love with him piece by piece until she’d gone nearly crazy with it. Ellison had suggested she give Eric a shot, and by God if other people were starting to notice her ridiculous behavior, then it was time to move on. She refocused on Frank, trying to decipher just what his motivation was.. “We’re friends, right? Don’t you want me to be happy?”

He didn’t answer, looking at her with carefully schooled features, his mouth clamped shut. 

“Frank?”

“We’re…” He couldn’t finish the sentence, thoughts he’d pushed back over and over again starting to resurface. He didn’t have room in his life to contemplate the curve of her lips, or the peachy tone of her skin, how soft it would be under his thumb. Those things didn’t fit in with the sound of an assault rifle clicking together, and the satisfying feel of a murderer’s neck snapping under his hands. 

She took a step toward him, the irritation draining out of her. Her hands, so graceful and full of healing, the parts of her that he was most intimately acquainted, reached for him, her palm flat against the side of his face. “Frank, what is it really?”

He fought the urge to lean into her touch, to rub his bruised skin against her coolness, to reach out and run his calloused thumb against the silk of her bottom lip. This is what he’d been afraid of, the spark of feelings long forgotten springing back to life inside of him. He didn’t have room for this, couldn’t be a real human no matter the situation. It wasn’t fair to her.

He retreated from her touch. “You want to know what it really is, Page? You have shit taste in men.” He snarled the words at her, infused with bitterness. She did have shit taste in men. She’d taken him in under her wing hadn’t she?

He left without another word. It was the last real conversation they’d had. Boundaries firmly in place in every interaction afterwards. Karen put a cage around her heart. He was her source, and occasionally the muscle in sticky situations, but all the softness between them was gone.

* * *

Karen’s nerves were shot, her stomach twisting in knots, nausea clawing up the back of her throat. She looked intently in the mirror. The face reflected back at her was splotchy with heat, a thin sheen of perspiration making her brow shiny. It was cold outside, but suddenly she felt like she was in the bowels of hell, and not the inner sanctum of a church. Did they have the heat on in here? 

The veil in her hands was torn. It had gotten caught on an exposed nail as she’d been walking out of the side chapel and toward the main entrance of the church. The sound of the tiny tear had been like an alarm, ringing in her ears it’s final warning. He’s not the right man.

Frank’s words echoed in her ears. Damn the bastard for being right. It wasn’t for the reasons he thought though, and that pissed her off even more. She didn’t need someone to protect her, she needed someone to love her, to _know_ every little thing and still see the good in her, to smile at her and happily call her out on all her bullshit. Eric was… a good man. And nothing more really. If she’d never met Frank, it was possible that she could have went through with this, lived out a quiet little life, moved to suburbia, hiding every little dark part of her past until it festered into something truly dangerous. But she _had_ met Frank, and damn it all if that didn’t change everything.

There were too many people sitting in the hard pews, waiting for her to walk through the ornate double doors, fanning themselves in the uncomfortable warmth, nearly all of them Eric’s family. She’d only invited a handful of guests; distant family from vermont, Matt, Foggy, a few people from the newspaper. She could hear them all murmuring to themselves, wondering where she was, but her eyes were glued to the tear in the veil, panic rising in her chest. She knew she was making a mistake.

A cool hand lighted on her shoulder, touch soft in spite of the unimaginable strength residing in the muscles. Karen jumped at the contact, twisting around to look Jessica in the face. Words tumbled from Karen's lips, voice trembling. “I fucked up, Jess.”

“That’s a sentiment I’m intimately familiar with.” Jessica sighed, pulling a handkerchief from the little pocket sewn into her dress. 

Karen took it, only briefly distracted by the sight of Jessica in formalwear.

Jessica cocked her head toward the exit. “You know, Page, nothing’s official.”

* * *

Frank dragged himself up three flights of stairs, cursing his decision to crawl into a bottle of whiskey and then go for a midnight run, and in the rain no less. The heavens had opened up halfway to his destination, pouring a couple thousand gallons of water down on the city, soaking his clothes through. The cold seeped down into his skin, head beginning to pound with the first hints of a terrible night. When he finally reached the door, a tiny voice in the back of his head whispered faintly. It told him to turn and flee, that he was making a huge fucking mistake. 

He ignored it, lifting his knuckles and rapping gently against the door. His heart knocked in his chest, feeling like a wrecking ball against his sternum as he waited. 

The door swung open, a blast of warm dry air whooshing out and enveloping him. She stood framed in the doorway, nose red from crying, eyes puffy. She kept the door mostly between them, stepping behind the oak panel and peeking around it. “F-frank? Is something wrong?”

“I’m an asshole.”

One corner of her mouth twitched up, amusement coloring her voice. “You having an epiphany or something, Frank? Because I could have told you that.”

He stepped across the threshold, giving her a moment to retreat. When she didn’t, he took a chance, finally reaching up to touch her face, drawing a line along the bottom of her lip.

She was soft in his arms, taking the chill right out of his bones, her breath on his skin licking at him like little flames. He wanted to drink her in, inhale every molecule of her. He pulled away, reluctantly releasing her lips. Panting, he finally managed to say, “I’m not the right man, Karen.”

She hauled him back to her, looking him dead in the eyes. “I swear to God Frank, you have to cut the bullshit. If anyone knows who the right man for me is, _it's me_.” As if to prove her point, she kissed him again, pouring all of her relief into the action. “I can take care of myself, and I know what I want. The only question is whether or not you’re ready.”

Her eyes were still the tiniest bit bloodshot, her nose a little red, throat hoarse with the tears she’d cried, but she was smiling, for him, at him, and to Frank she was like the light, calling him home after years of living in the dark. “I am.”


End file.
